


four years in the making

by sarcasticfishes



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 07:38:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7351999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticfishes/pseuds/sarcasticfishes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew that off the ice, the guy was a bonafide teddy-bear; on the ice, there was nothing <i>teddy-like</i> about him, or the way he stood a clear six inches taller than Kent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	four years in the making

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madameofmusic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madameofmusic/gifts).



> Hi ! This was so fun to write, and I tried to incorporate a few of your prompts here, like Kent's dynamic with the team, but also his relationship with Tater and how Jack came into play with that. I hope you enjoy it, I've really begun to love this ship!
> 
> Thanks for the beta work K and S, the Jack and Bitty to my Kenny for reals. They fix my shit on a daily basis.

  1. > **November.**




Numbers 90 and 7, braced at the face-off dot. Kent looked up, saw Mashkov’s brow furrow behind his visor, tongue poking out between his teeth in concentration. He knew that off the ice the guy was a bonafide teddy-bear; on the ice, there was nothing _teddy-like_ about him or the way he stood a clear six inches taller than Kent.

“Good luck, man,” Kent said, and Mashkov huffed out a laugh, the corner of his wide mouth curving up.

“Not need luck,” Mashkov replied, and the puck dropped between them. Mashkov won the face-off and led the Falconers to score just moments later, leaving Kent staring in shock and awe. It didn’t matter in the end though, because the Aces won 4-2, and Kent’s two goals and two assists earned him the team’s white leather jacket, awarded to the MVP after each game.

Mac slapped him hard on the back, right over the silver studded ‘ _The King_ ’ emblazoned across top, gripping Kent’s shoulder and shaking him a little.

“Shots sound good right about now, eh?”

Mac beamed, and Kenny let himself be whisked away towards the exit. The team liked to do their Jacket Ceremony after everyone had showered and dressed to leave, meaning the recipient was usually corralled into wearing the jacket out celebrating, and Kent enjoyed wearing it more than he liked to admit.

He let Mac steer him towards a taxi with Lipsy and Hamm already waiting in it. Lipsy grabbed Kent’s face, smacking a loud kiss against his cheek and shouting ‘ _you beaut, Parser!’_  before allowing him to climb in. Hamm told the driver the name of a club, and as they drove away, Kent felt the satisfaction of their win melting into something entirely different as the atmosphere inside the taxi thickened.

“You guys picking up tonight?” he asked, already knowing the answer as Mac started cheering, and Hamm made siren noises with his mouth that Kent wasn’t sure any human should be able to recreate.

“As if we’ll be able to pick up with you in the club, Parser?” Lipsy asked, knocking his knee against Kent’s, licking his lips slow and lasciviously. “Will you even make time for us?”

“Always got time for you, Lips,” he said, in a low, persuasive voice, because he’d always thought that chirping and flirting were two variations of the same idea and never liked to hold back. Mac and Hamm screamed with laughter when Lipsy leaned in for a kiss and Kent shoved him away with a shriek and a play-punch to the chest.

“Bro, I’m hurt.”

“Bro, we’re almost there. We’ll get you a girl,” Kent promised, because wasn’t going to be a hard promise to keep; Jake Phillips could be charming as fuck when he wanted something.

The drive to the club was relatively short, considering Vegas traffic after an Aces game (or any time, really). Before Kent knew it, he was sitting in a booth with the guys and a tray of shots too numerous for Kent to seriously consider counting sitting in front of him. Lipsy already had a girl in his lap and a shot in each had, so Kent considered himself relieved of his duties. He decided to knock back a shot himself and then order himself a nice vodka soda at the bar. He may have been The King amongst Aces tonight, and morning skate tomorrow may have been optional, but that didn’t mean he had to go hard like the rest of them and wake up in Tequila Hell™.

The crowd at the bar seemed to part for him to order, which wasn’t unusual for Kent, and he smiled graciously as he passed by the bar’s patrons. The strange thing, however, was the tall, dark haired guy standing in front of Kent, who hadn’t moved a single inch. He didn’t seem to have even _noticed_ Kent, or the club full of rowdy hockey players, for that matter.

And then tall guy turned around, and Kent just about managed not to stumble back in shock.

“Mashkov?”

Alexei Mashkov — because of course it was him, that nose was recognizable anywhere, _ugh_ — blinked down at Kent, eyebrows raised, a tumbler of clear liquid in one hand. He wore a white, open-collared shirt with a thin gold chain glittering against his skin beneath, Kent’s eyes were always drawn to sparkles and pretty things.

“Parson,” he said, brightly. “You play good tonight! Good thing it not matter, is early season.”

Kent choked out a laugh and took a step back, aware they were being watched. “Was… was that a _chirp_?”

“Maybe little,” Mashkov smirked. “I buy you a drink? To apologize for so many face-offs I beat you.”

“Three. You only won three.”

“You only _play three_ against me. What you drink, Parson?”

Kent shook his head, fighting down a smile as he stepped up next to Mashkov at the bar, trying hard not to think about just how _tall_ Alexei was, how _broad_. Fuck.

“Vodka soda.”

Mashkov lifted his hand to signal the bartender, and ordered Kent’s drink plus two shots of something blue and deadly looking. Kent lifted the shot glass and clinked it carefully against Mashkov’s before knocking it back, grimacing at the taste of mint. It was like swallowing mouthwash.

“Fuck, what was that?” he coughed.

Mashkov shrugged, then shook his head, frowning down at the shot glass he’d just emptied.

“Ask for bartender recommend. Never again.”

Kent laughed in agreement, noticing that the spectators around them had dispersed a little. He turned to face the crowd again and fondled his drink, leaning back against the bar.

“You here with the other Falcs?”

“Just some.” Mashkov shrugged. “Others too old, lame. Sad to lose. Like to watch History channel in hotel room.”

Kent snorted, “Yeah. I know all about those types.”

“I’m say to them, we only in Vegas once, maybe two time a year? Why stay in?”

“Yeah. Hey, you guys deserve to have some fun. Do whatever the hell you want to do. When in Vegas.”

Kent was a firm believer in doing what you wanted to do, regardless of who was holding you back, regardless of who was always trying to put you second.

Mashkov beamed at him, and it was absolutely dazzling; the widest, most genuine smile that Kent had seen in a long time.

“Thanks, Parson.

“Hey, I know you here with Aces? But if you want to talk, I’m be over there — ” he pointed towards a set of alcove-like booths at the other end of the dance floor, “ — drinking with loudmouth Goalie.”

“Cool, man. Thanks for the drink.”

Mashkov patted Kent on the back, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze before beginning to weave through the crowd back towards his teammates. Eventually Kent found the momentum to do the same, sinking into his booth to find the guys watching him with wide eyes.

“Dude, was that Mashkov?”

“He’s fucking _huge_ , god. What a beast.”

“Wouldn’t like to get on his bad side, tee-bee-aych.”

“What?” Kent snorted, “He’s a fuckin’ teddy bear, you dumbasses.”

Hamm squinted at Kent across the table, mouth pressed into a straight line. “What, really?”

“Yeah,” Kent shrugged. “We were drafted together, remember? I saw him at the combine and all that stuff. He’s nice. I mean, he wasn’t that _tall_ last time I saw him…”

“But, he’s chill?”

“He bought me this drink,” Kent said, lifting his glass to show them all, and all at once the guys fell silent, staring. “…What?”

“He bought you a drink,” Hamm said, flatly. Even Lips elected to surface from kissing his new friend in order to stare at Kent.

“Yeah,” Kent said, a little confused, before taking a sip from his glass. Good vodka, the expensive kind, and the perfect ratio of alcohol to soda. _Nice one, Mashkov._

“And he’s like… nice to you?”

“We’re talking about Alexei Mashkov, right? Tall, Russian, hella smart but can’t tell his left from his right off the ice?”

Some of the guys laughed; Mac just smirked and shook his head.

“Just saying, Parser. Kind of looked like he was hitting on you.”

Kent frowned.

“Just because I told you guys that I’m into men doesn’t mean you can pull this shit on me.”

There was a wave of disgruntled, even _offended,_ noises from Kent’s teammates, and Lipsy scooted around the edge of the booth to curl into Kent’s side.

“We’re not, oh my god. Parser, this is Vegas. We went to a drag show last Thursday night. We sponsor Pride Gear. We’re not fucking with you, and we _wouldn’t_.”

“You’re drunk, Phillips,” Kent grumbled and took a long drink, all but draining his glass.

“You went to a drag show without me?” Hamm frowned, and Kent stood up from the table abruptly.

“Okay. I’m leaving. I’m gonna talk Mashkov into buying me another drink.”

“GET IT PARSER!”

“That’s my _BOY_.”

“K-V-P! K-V-P!”

“I hate all of you,” Kenny sighed, adjusting of the white leather jacket, and turning to go find Mashkov and his Falconer friends in the crowd.

·

Bathroom blowjobs were usually no big deal. But when it was a six-foot-four Russian kneeling at your feet, it was hard not to feel somewhat powerful. Kent had always liked feeling in control.

·

  1. > **May.**




Kent shouldn’t have expected two cups in a row. Fuck knew he wanted it more than he wanted to _breathe_ sometimes, to prove them all wrong, but — Dallas knocked them out in the second round, and it was fucking heartbreaking.

The guys went home, and Kent went _out_ , making sure that the guy he went home with knew how to keep his mouth shut and had to bend down to kiss him.

It took a week of fucking around and roughly five liters of vodka for him to check the messages on his phone. Three from his mom, which he replied to first, letting her know he was okay. Seven from various teammates wishing him a happy summer. One conversation was a message to Hamm asking for a ride home because Kent was too drunk to drive, followed by ‘ _nvm i made it home u don[’t have to coem_ ’ and Hamm’s reply of ‘ _yeah bc i drove you there dumbass_ ’.

So, Kent was a sore loser, and that wasn’t new information. The fact that the Falcs had missed out on the playoffs altogether was the only reason Kent deigned to reply to Alexei Mashkov’s commiseration text composed of three bumblebee emojis and nothing more.

_‘yeah it fckin stings_ ,’ Kent replied, frowning down at his phone before tossing it aside on the couch. In the kitchen, he grabbed the biggest bottle of water he could find and brought it back to the couch to cradle it like a child.

_‘have to give someone else a turn, kent parson_ ,’ Alexei had answered, and Kent rolled his eyes. The next text, which came in quick succession to the first, read: ‘ _if u feel like maybe enjoy summer, am in miami with the guys. is room for one more.’_

And, yeah. Kind of ridiculous to consider going to Miami for a guy who blew you in a bathroom once six months ago. But Kent had rarely considered himself all that sensible.

_‘i’m in.’_

·

‘The guys’ that Alexei had mentioned turned out to be a ragtag bunch of Russians from all over the NHL, Penguins and Capitals alike — even the guy from the Schooners who Kent had punched in the mouth during his rookie year. They seemed like a cool bunch, barely batting an eyelid whenever Alexei slung his arm over Kent’s shoulders.

They ended up on the roof of the hotel together, knocking ankles, elbows digging into ribs until Alexei finally manhandled Kent into something resembling cuddling, turning their faces to the sky.

“No stars in Miami,” Alexei mused, blinking up at the purple-orange sky. Kent could hear cars passing below. Alexei’s breathing. His own pulse.

“It’s light pollution. There are none in Vegas either. Well, not in the sky. People-stars, we have those.”

“People-stars,” Alexei huffed, laughing as though he didn’t quite understand. “Like Dallas Stars?”

Kent snorted so loudly it hurt.

“No, dumbass,” he giggled.

Alexei pinched him, playful. “Not dumb, just bad to understand English sometimes. You had a lot to drink, little one,” Alexei smirked.

Kent, manfully ignoring the ‘little’ comment, wrinkled his nose.

“Sorry, man.”

“Is okay. Kind of how I get nickname.”

Kent wracked his brain. There were many high-profile players in the NHL whose nicknames were common knowledge, but as far as Kent knew, Alexei wasn’t one of those players (yet, but the way he was playing he was sure to get there fast).

“Wait, what’s your nickname?”

Alexei smirked, his eyes still on the sky. “Tater.”

It took Kent a few moments to put the connection together, blinking in confusion. He began to giggle all of a sudden.

“Oh fuck, because Mashkov… mash… mashed potatoes… I get it, fuck. That’s convoluted.”

“Big word,” Alexei turned his face to Kent, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, like… it means, like, hard to follow? Takes some concentration to get from point A to point B.”

“Tater is like small potato, yes? I’m big potato, so is funny. See? Is easy.”

Kent burst out laughing, unable to hold it in and turning to bury his face in Alexei’s ribs, wheezing out _big potato!_ with each breathless giggle. He could feel Alexei’s chest shuddering under his cheek, laughing with him.

“Keep laugh, I call you _Little Parsnip_. See if you like then!”

“God. Fuck. Tater and Parsnips. I like that, man.”

Alexei beamed with that bright, wide smile, that genuine grin that melted Kent’s icy core every damn time.

“I like too, Parsnips. I too.”

· 

  1. > **December.**




Jack _relented_ under his hands, easy, _hungry_ for it — and it was a surprise, because Jack had never been anything but difficult when it came to Kent.

Kent knew Vegas had their eye on Jack, wanted him on their roster, wanted Parson and Zimmermann reunited at last. There, in Jack’s house, with Jack’s hands on him, Jack’s mouth on his… it seemed possible.

“You could… We could be like this, y’know?” Kent let his mouth run off, overwhelmed like he got every time Jack came this close. “We could do this all the time. It wouldn’t be rushed, it wouldn’t be — we _could_ , Zimms.”

Jack lifted his head from Kent’s neck, lips already red and used, swollen; they made Kent’s mouth water just to look at.

“Could we?” Jack’s eyes were clear as day, his voice edging on sharp as though Kent had offended him. Kent had always been able to sense a fight coming on because it always felt the same way. Like the spell had broken.

“You could come to Vegas.”

Jack pulled back a little, frowning.

“I think I want to stay close to Massachusetts, Kenny…”

Kent snorted out a little laugh, pulling back.

“So, what, the Falconers?” Because Jack sure as hell wasn’t going to be a _Bruin_. Fuck, the Falconers though? Alexei and Jack on the same team. That would be… That was not something Kent wanted, not something that his paranoia could take.

“Fuck,” he laughed. “Are you serious?”

Jack shrugged, taking a full step back, frown set deep into his face now.

“Well, I don’t know.”

“…You have no clue?”

Jack looked chastened. “I mean, it could be Montreal, it could be L.A., okay? I don’t know.”

The ‘ _I could go anywhere_ ’ was implied. Jack wasn’t being conceited, but none of what he was saying was the answer Kent was looking for. He scoffed a little, frowning down at his feet, knowing he was getting bratty and not caring.

“…What about Las Vegas?”

A short, vicious argument bloomed. Kent might have pulled every trick in the book to get his way but — he _exposed_ himself too, just like he did every time, looking for Jack’s approval. Needing to be needed, to be missed.

Jack had never said it back before, why would this time be any different? He didn’t miss Kenny. He didn’t even want to be near him.

Kent cleared his throat to shift the lump out of it.

“Call me if you reconsider or whatever,” he said, back turned. Bitty was there, the small blond who’d been hanging on Jack’s every word all night, who’d beamed too brightly taking a selfie with Kent. He seemed like a good kid who’d keep his mouth shut. Kent liked those types.

Jack’s throat clicked, as if he was about to say something. Kenny wedged his hat back on his head, twisting it around and plowing forward, his words like a bull in a China shop.

“But good luck with the Falconers,” he said, and scoffed again. “…I’m sure that’ll make your dad proud.”

It wasn't fair, because he _knew_ Bob, and he knew that Bob would be proud of Jack no matter what. But it did the trick, Jack falling quiet _real_ quickly. Kenny left without another word. Six, seven selfies with partygoers later, he finally made it to his rental parked halfway down the block, sinking into the front seat with a sigh.

It was only a forty minute drive to Providence.

·

Alexei opened the door wearing pajamas and looking stern, but he melted at the sight of Kent twisting his hat between his hands on his doorstep. A half hour into the drive he’d started shivering, and hadn’t been able to stop.

“Parsnips. Kenny. What happen?” Alexei looked torn between stepping back to let Kent inside and leaping forward to gather him into his arms; the result was a strange sort of hopping from foot-to-foot before he finally reached out to drag Kenny inside by his wrist. He pushed the door shut and wrapped Kenny up in one sweeping motion, and Kent sighed in relief as the shivers finally started to subside.

“Why you in Rhode Island, ‘Snips? You play Boston tomorrow, yes?”

_Snips_. No one else called him that. It — It felt like being a whole other person.

Warmth bloomed in Kenny’s chest, and he let Alexei guide him into the kitchen, settling him down on a stool at the breakfast bar.

“I _was_ in Mass, actually.” He shrugged, clearing his throat when he found his voice raw, all caught up. “Visiting an old friend.”

“Zimmermann?” Alexei asked, and Kenny looked up at him in shock. He was too tired, too full of regret to school his facial expressions.

“How’d you know?”

“Not stupid, ‘Snips. Just bad English,” Alexei laughed and moved away to put on a pot of coffee at the other side of the kitchen. “Draft same year, remember? Know a lot about Parson and Zimmermann No-Look-One-Timer.”

“I always forget,” Kenny said, softly, happy to see that Alexei was smiling to himself. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry, Tate.”

“Is okay. I’m skip optional skate tomorrow anyway. Now I have better reason than just be lazy.”

Waiting for the coffee to brew, Alexei slid onto the stool next to Kenny, knocking their knees together.

“Still shake a little, Snips. All okay?”

Kenny sighed. If there was anyone he was going to tell this to, it would be Alexei.

“Things are different now. Jack and I have been through a lot, but it made us different people, and I just thought… if he came to Vegas… We could be _us_ again, y’know?”

Alexei nodded. “Things change, yes?”

“He was my best friend.” Kenny frowned down at the countertop, could feel the tremors starting again. “And now I don’t know if he’ll ever speak to me again. I did something really stupid.”

“Maybe coffee bad idea,” Alexei sighed. “Think you just need sleep. You fly from Vegas tonight?”

“Yeah. With the team, but I drove down here.”

“Stupid,” Alexei huffed, affectionately. “импульсивный.”

The word, though heavily accented with Russian, didn’t sound all that different from it’s English counterpart.

“I know what that means, asshole.” Kenny scowled, but he allowed himself to be corralled up the stairs to Alexei’s bedroom anyway. The bed was unmade, clothes strewn around and hockey gear stacked up in the corners, but it felt cozy, and it smelled like Alexei.

“What is word in English?” Alexei asked, squeezing the back of Kent’s neck before gently tugging at his flannel, encouraging him to take it off.

“Impulsive,” Kent said, shrugging out of his shirt, letting Alexei brush a kiss to the side of his neck. “Doing things without thinking first, right? Not considering the consequences.”

“Big word.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Kent sighed, tugging his t-shirt over his head, handing it off to Alexei, who set it aside on a chair with Kent’s other shirt. “Do you want to…?”

“Fuck?” There was an inquisitive tilt to Alexei’s brow, his wide mouth curving into a smile, eyes glittering in the dark. “Is why you come here?”

“Just wanted to see a friendly face,” Kent admitted. “I’d forgotten how I feel when I’m around you.”

“What you feel?”

Kenny’s chest tightened, and he rubbed the heel of his palm over his sternum. Alexei’s eyes dropped to follow the movement, lingering a moment before he met Kent’s gaze again.

“Just… good.” Kenny shrugged. “Sounds dumb but — ”

“No,” Alexei shook his head. “Feel good with you too, Snips.”

It wasn’t what he flew across the country for, but it was almost better. It was Alexei’s big hands on his hips, pulling him close. Gentle kisses, nothing like the ones Jack had given him, fierce and biting and _aching_.

But this was a different kind of aching. Alexei, always surprising Kent, was _tender_ with him.

“Fuck dude, don’t make me cry unless they’re sex tears.”

Alexei chuckled.

“Want to take care of my little Parsnip. Make him not so sad.”

Kent smiled, dropping his chin to his chest, and Alexei’s palms came up to cup his cheeks.

“You can try. Might take a while.”

“Have all night,” Alexei said and kissed him, slow and deep, but just for a moment. “And all morning too, if need.”

·

Kent was still a little achey inside in the morning, but in the good way — in the freshly-fucked kind of way that had him climbing into Alexei’s lap for more before either of them had even said ' _good morning_ '. He had a game later, and practice for sure before that. He knew to be careful, be gentle. But Kent thought that maybe before he set foot on the ice again, he’d just like to feel whole again for a little while.

· 

  1. > **October.**




“But he’s settling in alright?”

“Is great! Very happy to play, happy to be on a team. Think he miss school but is close enough that he visits.”

“You don’t have to give me the soundbite answer, babe.”

“It’s true! Give him nickname and all. Call him Zimmboni.”

“Hah. _Classic_.”

“He get mad when Snowy try call him ‘Zimms’. Not shouting mad, but, not happy.”

“Yeah, that’s… that’s what I used to call him.”

“...Zimmboni _best_ name.”

“You’re taking care of him?”

“Zimmboni is a big boy, Snips. Can take care of self.”

“I know, I know. It’s just… y’know.”

“Yeah. I know… He talk about you, Snips. Sometimes. Don’t think he mad anymore.”

“You think we could tell him? I want to tell him.”

“Yeah. We could.”

“Eventually.”

“Yeah.”

·

  1. > **February.**




The Falconers were on track for a playoffs spot already, and even though it was early days, Kent had a lot of faith in them. It was easier to support a team in another division, in another _conference_ , especially when your boyfriend was one of their star players.

It was late into February when Kent got a phonecall from a 401 area-code. When Alexei called, it usually flashed up a picture of him holding Kit to his chest, big and white and fluffy against his blue jersey. This wasn’t Alexei.

“Jack,” he answered, confident in his knowledge of who the hell would be calling him from Rhode Island, but his voice trembled none the less. There was a beat of silence on the end of the line.

“How’d you know?”

“Psychic,” Kent said, nonchalantly, just to hear Jack’s huff of laughter at the other end. “And I know the Providence area-code.”

“Of _course_ you do,” Jack said with a knowing tone to his voice. Kent’s heart skipped a little, stomach clenching.

“He told you. Alexei told you.”

“He told me,” Jack affirmed, pausing as though waiting for Kent’s protest or argument or anything. But Kent… was maybe struggling to find the words. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. Jack cleared his throat.

“Tall, dark, and handsome, eh? Someone has a type.”

Kent burst out laughing, the floodgates finally opening, “Calling yourself _handsome_ ? That’s kinda conceited of you, man. Don’t forget I knew you as a teenager. And also, hypocritical much? I _know_ you have a type, I’ve seen him—”

“Okay, enough!” Jack laughed. “Okay, alright. I just… I called to make sure we’re okay. And to congratulate you. Tater’s a great guy, and, uh… I hope you’re happy.”

“I am.” Kent smiled. “And… Yeah. We’re okay, I think. I want us to be okay again, Jack.”

“My therapist says we should probably talk things out in person some time though,” Jack added, casual as anything, like he wasn’t dropping a huge bomb on Kent. _Therapy_. There’s something Kent hadn’t given much thought to.

“Of course, Zimms, for sure. I’ll — we can — _yes_.”

“So, next time you’re out east, give me a call?” Jack asked, sounding more lighthearted than Kent’s ever heard him. “Or fuck, you have a boyfriend out here now. Arrange it with him. We’ll all hang out. All four of us.”

Kent grinned.

“Are you suggesting a double date, Zimms?”

“What? No.”

“You are. You _are_!”

“I’m — not. I’m hanging up now. Goodbye, Kenny.”

“I can’t wait for our double date!” Kent shouted into the phone, pretty sure that Jack had hung up before he’d even finished the sentence. Still, he couldn’t wipe the grin off his face.

For the first time in a long time, Kent felt like he was on the right track.


End file.
